Thursday, February 19, 2009

droll

i'm the youngest personin the place & the only onenot clacking at keys. i wieldmy pen with long-practiced easelong companions, i and shenot much satisfaction's discoveredwith plastic tapping keratin.

i've callouses on my fingersfrom my tool, which will not eatmy words but saves automaticallywhatever i am scrawling onto scrapsthat will be stuffed in pocketsand hauled out, eventually,like the days' catch.

i mean peripherally i'll bemining myself deeplyall day,to find something worth preserving,a taste of a frame of mind,a mindset so thick it moldsbetween your fingers, so freshit still bleeds when you applya bit of pressure on the woundi'll open to public display,after all this is what writers are made of,exhibitionism with eccentricism,mixed with solipsism,a penfull of ink and twitching,or, i suppose,if you prefer, the clickityclack click clackityclick